


I got the devil on my shoulder (and her voice in my ear)

by Out_Of_Custody



Category: Captain America (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Spot The Reference, if you dare, its a spy-spy world, itty bitty something, writers-block cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The little dame gets assigned to him, he is later informed. They do not give him a name, but he still doesn’t need one and is very content to know that she will be there for future fieldtrips – she’s a handy little devil to have on his shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I got the devil on my shoulder (and her voice in my ear)

**Author's Note:**

> So, while I've been working on a new story I hit (surprise-surprise) a writers' block as large and impenetrable as the Great Wall Of China and THIS is the result of it. It's losely based of a series of movies that you probably know well enough, but for the fun of guessing around I won't mention it and leave the reference-spotting to you guys. 
> 
> I hope you like what my mind came up with while trying to overcome this hitch in creativity-flow. 
> 
> \--

He’s not too surprised when the man finally comes around to talk to him; it’s been a while since they’ve been silently acknowledging each other sitting in the Pub. And given the fact that he can count at least one gun and a knife on him, it hadn’t taken him long to decide the making of this silent companion - especially considering the time he’d be around.

“You’re looking for trouble.”

While he doesn’t know whether or not to snort into his glass of whiskey, he does decide to go with a wry smirk, a cocked brow and a devil-may-care-smile as he takes a healthy sip.

He knows he is.

“’s what my ma used ta say.” He counters, motioning for the barkeep to procure a White Russian for his new conversation partner – the movement of his hand does not go unnoticed.

Nothing goes unnoticed.  
Not to him.  
Not to either of them.

“Seems like she knew what she was talking about.”

It’s funny that he doesn’t need to look at the man next to him to know that his mine is a mixture of disappointment and intrigue – but then, they’d been watching each other for months now, looking for someone else.

The drink arrives and he salutes the man with his Whiskey. “Pro’ly.” He agrees and takes a sip. “But then trouble never gets you alone and I was only ever really good at finding those who spelt it in capitals.”

At this the man huffs a little smile and, really, it should probably be creepy how well he knows this – but their eyes are not on each other, rather than the mirror above them, glued to another form at the back of the Pub.

“Looks like it found you this time.”

The man chucks down his drink and, as he puts it down, slips a card under it – he can see that it’s a business card from the formatting, but one glance tells him it’s not your regular run of the mill Name-Address-Phone-Number kind of thing. Yes there’s numbers on it (+43 1 664 32 69 202) but there’s no name and no address.

He knows, all the same, what it’s for.

(He calls three days later when the Pub is closed down.)

 

++

 

The training he expects. He’s gone through this with the Army and he’s quite fond of the Dragunov they push into his hands – because, obviously, they _know_ of his weaponry preferences – as well as his S.O. who’s nothing like the man in the suit. 

With one look he can tell that he has a soldier in front of him who’s lived more lives than he could possibly put into a book and if ever he’d try to amass all his case files in a room he’d find out that the public library would be too small.

He gets along just fine with him.

What does surprise him is the little dish of a dame that, barely has he finished his “101” into this very crazy world he’ll apparently now be part of, sashays over to him and gives him a blatant once over.

She doesn’t linger on his arm, despite the fact that it _glints_ in the harsh neon lighting – but she does linger on his very bare feet which makes him wonder for a moment, before she looks up and directly into his eyes.

“What’s your take on Honey-Traps?” she asks and there’s a very inappropriate answer sitting on his tongue, but he swallows it because his ma would have his hide if he were ever anything but respectful to a woman.

“I can lay them just fine.” He says instead, going with the less inappropriate but not entirely adequate one (never been the kind for that, despite the fact that the Nuns had tried their damnest to drill it out of him) and the double-entendre is not lost on her if her smirk is any indication.

She nods. “Excellent. If you would follow me I might just have your first fieldtrip at my fingers.”

 

++

 

They’re not fucking around apparently. 

His first fieldtrip required him balancing a rescue mission, a honey trap and an intelligence sweep in the course of three days. He couldn’t remember loving the swoop of adrenaline this much back when he’d still swallowed Sand with every breath he’d taken, but then, he also hadn’t had the sweetest angel guiding his every footstep.

“She’s not drunk enough, Barnes, _ply_ her.”

The com in his ear was cleverly hidden and her voice rang clear through his head almost as if she were sitting on his shoulder – he wondered if perhaps she wasn’t the devil – but he complied, because that’s what she was there for, watching out for him.

He didn’t have her name, but didn’t need it (yet) – he just did as she said (and she was right).

 

++

 

She gives him a large smile when they return, his arm is acting up a little what with the amount of time they’d spent in the water before reaching their dingy, but it’s still functional and when she searches his eyes he gives her his best reassured look. She takes it, before reaching for the young girl that clings to him. 

“Hello there sweet-cheeks.” She greets the blonde princess. “I have a Netflix and My Little Pony cued up, waiting just right next to the world’s fluffiest pajamas, a hot chocolate and a Teddy. Your mommy said you didn’t like cookies – so I got us marshmallows. What say you: climb down from there and we go have ourselves a merry little time?”

The princess in his arm presses closer just for a moment, but the dame waits, patiently, smiling. He turns his head to the girl. “Those pajamas are probably super-dry, doll.” He says silently. “Don’t smell like oil and salt either.” He leans a little closer then. “And I bet her hair looks real pretty when you braid it.”

And apparently it’s the last comment that seals the deal because something shines in the eyes of the blonde girl and she’s down from his body as if they’d just walked through oil, giving the dame the biggest, bluest eyes known to mankind.

There’s a contemplative look on the dame’s eyes – one that he doesn’t miss when she reaches for the young girl and turns towards an office at the back with her. He likes watching her leave.

The little dame gets assigned to him, he is later informed. They do not give him a name, but he still doesn’t need one and is very content to know that she will be there for future fieldtrips – she’s a handy little devil to have on his shoulder.

 

++

 

“Can’t shake.” He grunts, swerving the machine under him into the catacombs – hopefully his ma is not looking right now or in the next few minutes. “Request to open fire.”

“Sanctioned.” Comes her voice from his ear and for the mere split of a second he wonders how old she is to authorize such a manoeuvre, but then his eyes settle on the vehicles behind him and he sends a quick prayer to The Man Up There before he drops his IED.

Vienna’s catacombs go up in dust.

“Swear to god, Barnes, I know this was necessary but you just destroyed a hundred years’ worth of culture.”

She sounds a little awed and a little miffed and he decides to focus on that instead of the pin-hole that is his only escape – he grins angrily. “Doll, I’d say I’m sorry, but I like my hide.”

The com crackles with static for a heart-stopping moment where he’s not certain if he’ll make it. He does.

“Yeah well and I like my free-time.” She sasses back and he doesn’t necessarily imagine the relief in her voice. “And it’ll be gone due to all the paperwork I’ll be clearing out to avoid a national incident.”

His grin turns rakish his adrenaline surging, pumping him. “Aw, doll, should I get you a _Sachertorte_ to make it more bearable?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” She’s laughing. “Jet’s waiting only for you. Come home safely.”

 

++

 

She pinches her lips when she sees the Sachertorte on her desk, but she doesn’t say a thing and when he comes by later, he finds that she’s sharing it with a lab-tech going by the name of Foster; they look thick as thieves and he puts the information on retainer.

 

++

 

He’s not surprised when they send him to the Ukraine. ‘Tensions are high’ would be a laughable description. 

What does throw him for the barest second is the little spitfire walking him through his out-fitting for the mission; her face has a smug grin sitting on it and it doesn’t make sense until she gets to a small, unassuming box.

The innocence of it rings bells left and right in his mind and when she steps closer with a larger grin he doesn’t fight the shiver that runs down his back – he doesn’t know if it’s fear or something else.

The dame gives him _a look_ over the rim of her glasses, weapon securely in her hand – and he decides then and there that it’s clearly _something else_. (God damn it, but that picture going away for when he’s lying in his shabby hideout…). “Stark didn’t have the capacities to do your specials this time, so it’s from a different manufacturer.”

Which could mean anything, but he waits with this observation. Her arm stretches, lines up in front of the target and she unclicks the safety.

The resulting explosion when she pulls the trigger knocks at least three dummies away – her smile is brilliant. “Next time you need to get out of some catacombs, try to aim for just _one_ wall.”

 

++

 

Kiev is fucking miserable.

The people are suspicious of their own shadows and even his cover as a journalist barely gives him the immunity it should normally grant him.

But that is not the worst part. The worst part is the fact that he cannot have _her_ in his ear and he’s never realized just how _silent_ the world is around him when she’s not chattering away in his ear.

At least, he consoles himself, it’s over fast.

His mark is out on the streets and doesn’t bother with the security measures it would warrant. He takes one shot.

When the security proves to be more efficient in tracking him down than he’d anticipated and they surprise him in his room, he embraces the rush of adrenaline that keeps him always one step ahead of them. (He’s pleased when his new fire-arm takes out two SUVs.)

He succeeds in shaking them.

It isn’t until he boards his plane that he gets distinctively uncomfortable. There are at least three Air-Marshalls on the plane, which, even for an American Plane taking off from a country on the cusp of civil war, is a slight over-kill.

Which means it has to be something else.

He wrecks his mind until the Oxygens masks tumble.  
(If he survives this he’s never flying commute again.)

 

++

 

“FUCK YOU! There was NO reason to send him in dark! I TOLD you-”

He comes to listening to the most beautiful voice in the world dressing down some poor shmuck. Neon glares his sensitive pupillage into submission and he groans. His whole body is _leaden_ , he can feel the tubes in his throat and concentrates hard not to choke down on them – the effort makes his head fuzzy.

“Shit. You’re awake.”

He _loves_ that voice.

But he loves the hands on his face even more when they unhook his fucking tubes and carefully remove them – he breathes easier, can finally swallow. He doesn’t try to open his eyes a second time.

“Hey doll.” He greets her; certain he’s placed the voice right.

“Don’t you ever give me a scare like that again, Barnes. For fuck’s sake.”

He quirks his lips; loves the mouth on her.

 

++

 

There’s a change in pace around them, between them.

He doesn’t know her name, still doesn’t need it – but he can’t help but notice that she continues to glower at his S.O. every time the man is in her near vicinity; the lug has the modesty to look abashed.

She stops after one morning when he finds the man speed-walking down the hallways covered in bright green jello.

He doesn’t leave on a mission without her in his ear again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! :)


End file.
